


прочность | strength

by novoaa1



Series: natasha tries not to do "feelings" (the operative word here being 'tries') [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bottom Natasha Romanov, Dialogue Light, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Finally!, Light Angst, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, POV Wanda Maximoff, Praise Kink, Red Room (Marvel), Spanking, and um they talk, idk man, ish, like this is the beginning of them starting to reconcile??, natasha has a crazy high pain tolerance, natasha's fucking around until shes not cause shit gets real and she really likes wanda, obviously, so thats cute, so theres that, sorta - Freeform, top wanda maximoff, uh, uhhhhh, umm, well okay they don't talk but they're about to if that makes sense?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 01:22:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19346677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Wanda's had enough.... like,enoughenough.She goes to Natasha's quarters, and um... things happen.





	прочность | strength

**Author's Note:**

> i really needed a break from other stuff --- suffering from lowkey writer's block for my other two stories, which obviously isn't great, but this just kinda came to me sooooo here it is!

It’s 2:00am, and Wanda’s had enough. 

 

Enough of seeing Natasha’s face taunting her in her dreams, enough of walking past the redheaded assassin in the halls and acting wholeheartedly like nothing’s been going on, like Natasha hasn’t been taking Wanda to the peaks of indomitable pleasure and flinging her unceremoniously off the edge in these stolen moments together, like she doesn’t know exactly what Natasha looks like when she kneels for Wanda (which is gorgeous and demure and so painfully fuckable, it _hurts_ ), like Wanda can’t still feel the phantom stroke of Natasha’s fingers and tongue in her painfully slick folds with every passing moment that she lets this (whatever ' _this_ ’ is) continue. 

 

Wanda’s finished with it—with all of it. 

 

And that’s how she finds herself at 2:04am, rapping stolidly on the door of Natasha’s quarters and pointedly ignoring the tingling along her skin at the close proximity to Natasha, at the knowledge that she’s _there_ on the other side of this door, that she’s probably in bed wearing something positively mouth-watering, like that strappy crimson tank top from the other day, nipples straining obscenely against the flimsy fabric, the material bunched up around her waist to reveal a tantalizing strip of alabaster—

 

The door swings open a second later to reveal a scantily-dressed Natasha in that _ridiculous_ crimson tank top (no bra, of course), and tiny black spandex that look more like underwear than shorts, her waves of reddish hair mussed _adorably_ , wide green eyes blinking owlishly at Wanda in the dim lighting. 

 

_Fuck_. 

 

Wanda clears her throat and fights the urge to shift awkwardly on her feet in the empty hallway, trying to gather herself as Natasha’s blank look turns smug, lips curling into a familiar smirk, eyes flashing with a predatory glint that virtually screams _danger_. 

 

“Wanda,” she rasps out, her voice husky and low from sleep, and Wanda shakes her head forcefully from side to side in a desperate attempt to clear her thoughts. “What a surprise.”

 

At that, Wanda’s anger comes back tenfold, curling painfully in her chest and causing crimson energy to simmer unbidden beneath her skin. “No,” she growls, clenching her jaw. “No, we are _not_ doing this.”

 

Natasha quirks a brow, leaning languidly against the doorframe, and _God_ , it shouldn’t look as attractive as it does—but it’s Natasha, Wanda reasons. All bets were off when it came to Natasha—that was just more of a fact than anything else. 

 

_Fuck_. 

 

“Doing what?” she asks, feigning innocence, and Wanda feels like blasting something. (Not her, of course. _Never_ her.)

 

Wanda bites the inside of her lip _hard_ and doesn’t flinch when she tastes coppery blood, too far gone to focus on anything but retaining at least a modicum of control here, of saying what she needs to say before Natasha can derail it like she so effortlessly has on every other occasion. 

 

“Sex,” she states flatly, hating the way her cheeks burn hotly at the word, hating the bemused twinkle in Natasha’s jade-green eyes. 

 

Natasha pouts. “But I thought you liked it?”

 

Wanda shudders involuntarily. 

 

“I—I—I did— _do_ , obviously, but… " she trails off, slowly losing her resolve, anger ebbing steadily away until all that’s left is a hollow feeling, something desperate and heart-wrenching, something she hadn’t known until Natasha. “I don’t… You’re confusing me, Natasha.”

 

Natasha frowns, immediately dropping the sensuous pretense, a tiny crinkle forming between her brow as she stands to the side and extends a pale hand—the apparent and rather abrupt 180° turn their conversation is taking leaves Wanda’s head spinning in its wake. 

 

“Come inside, Wanda,” she requests softly, _so_ softly, and Wanda does without a moment’s hesitation, feeling utterly _drained_ all of a sudden, confusion and affection and anger running rampant inside her brain until she’s altogether dizzy with the magnitude of it all. 

 

“Sit,” Natasha tells her, nodding to the unmade bed in the shadowy luminescence, stark-white sheets rumpled haphazardly atop the mattress—Wanda does. 

 

Then Natasha is approaching her with steady, measured steps—and when she’s a foot away, she sinks swiftly to her knees again, the precipitous action taking Wanda profoundly by surprise… but it’s not sexual; she doesn’t trace Wanda’s thighs with her dainty fingers, doesn’t eye her with lust and wanting like every other time before, doesn’t do anything but sit carefully back on her heels at Wanda's feet, hands clasped primly in her lap, eyes wide and curious, jade-green irises twinkling beautifully in the moonlight. 

 

It makes Wanda’s breath catch in her throat, because _Christ, she’s a vision_. 

 

“You look beautiful,” she tells Natasha softly, unable to stop herself, cheeks flooding with warmth as a taken aback look briefly crosses Natasha’s graceful features. 

 

A split second later and it’s gone, a gentler smile curving at Natasha’s lips, sincerity seeming to ooze from every pore—it’s the most breathtaking thing Wanda’s ever seen, but _God_ , she doesn’t know if she can trust it. 

 

She wants to, though. More than anything. 

 

“You do, too,” Natasha replies quietly, brows stitched together, head tilted as if to say _“This is real,”_ as if to assure her, _“No more games,”_ as if to plead with her, _“Please believe me.”_

 

Wanda does. 

 

“I am, um—I am sorry if I woke you.”

 

Natasha’s attentive expression doesn’t change. “I’m not. What’s wrong?”

 

Wanda sighs. “I just… I could not sleep.”

 

“Because of me?” Natasha asks, her voice suddenly small and tentative—it breaks Wanda’s heart. 

 

“It is just… I… am confused. About us.”

 

Natasha lets out a tiny sigh at that, almost imperceptible. “Me, too.”

 

Wanda can feel her brows shooting up to her hairline. “Really?”

 

“Yes,” Natasha answers, dropping her gaze to focus on her hands, her figure still and unmoving in the relative darkness—a moment later, she’s drawing her eyes back up to meet Wanda’s, a rare sort of vulnerability reflected in irises of mesmerizing verdant, and Wanda feels her heart skip a beat. “The Red Room, they taught us about sex. A lot.” Natasha bites her lip and ducks her head, looking momentarily (uncharacteristically) ashamed, and Wanda feels untapped rage pooling in her gut. “I learned to think of it as… as a commodity, a thing, a means of gathering intel. More importantly, I learned to think of myself as a tool for killing, for maiming, for sex—anything to complete the mission. I don’t… I’ve never done sex that matters; I’ve never had it _mean_ something… Do you understand?”

 

Wanda feels tears burning in her eyes, but she forces a nod, silently urging Natasha to continue. 

 

“And… I know it’s something people want from me, you know? I know they like my body, my face, that they’re thinking about taking me to bed, because that’s how it’s always been. It’s like… training, almost, but a different kind. It’s not just about accuracy on the gun range, or physicality in a fist fight—I’ve always had to be physically attractive, too: watching what I eat, not getting too toned or too muscular, having my nails and hair done more often than not… It’s become a part of me now. It’s what makes me effective—it’s what makes me _worth_ something.” Wanda’s fists clench in her lap. “And, that’s what I thought you wanted, you know? That’s what I thought I could give you for being kind, and stitching me up, and treating me like I wasn’t a monster—"

 

“You are not a monster,” Wanda interrupts before she can help herself—but she most certainly doesn’t regret it, because Natasha’s not a monster, not in Wanda’s eyes, and it matters to her that Natasha knows that. 

 

Natasha just nods, and Wanda knows by the defeated look in her eye that she’s the farthest thing from convinced. (That’s okay. Wanda will spend as long as she needs to making sure Natasha believes it, too.)

 

“I’m sorry, Wanda,” Natasha whispers eventually, quietly enough that Wanda has to strain to hear it, her gaze falteringly downcast again. “I know I’m terrible at this, and I understand if you’re angry. I just… thought I knew what you wanted."

 

Sighing, Wanda impulsively reaches out a hand, resting her finger beneath Natasha’s chin and guiding her kindly back up to look Wanda in the eye, only dropping her hand when Natasha acquiesces without complaint. “It’s alright, Natasha. I am not angry.” 

 

Natasha quirks a brow, and Wanda chuckles to herself, sudden and genuine. “Okay, I _was_ angry… but I am not anymore.”

 

Natasha blinks. “You’re not?”

 

Wanda shakes her head. “I could never be angry with you,” she concedes mildly, raw honesty seeping into every word—Natasha watches on with visceral fascination, as if transfixed. 

 

“I don’t deserve that.”

 

Wanda shrugs, unconcerned. “I think you do.”

 

“I don’t,” Natasha reiterates firmly, adamantly—quickly, it becomes apparent to Wanda that this is about more than just now, this moment. “I deserve… I deserve to be punished.”

 

Wanda raises a brow at that, intrigued. “Would that make you feel better?”

 

Natasha nods shyly, head bowed, hands still clasped soundly in her lap. “I deserve it."

 

“Okay,” Wanda agrees after a moment, injecting a lenitive degree of authority into her tone and smiling inwardly when Natasha’s tensed shoulders relax involuntarily just the slightest bit in response. “What kind of punishment do you think you have earned?”

 

Natasha cautiously bites her lower lip, shaking her head. “I… don’t know.”

 

Wanda nods, having expected this—at least, to a certain extent. “Would you like me to choose for you?”

 

“Please."

 

Wanda shivers, anticipation building in her gut. “Stand up,” she orders, gentle but firm. 

 

Natasha does, her bare knees brushing lightly against Wanda’s as she accedes. 

 

“Take your shorts off and lay on the bed, face-down.”

 

Natasha shimmies out of her tight black shorts, pausing as she thumbs at the waistband of simple black panties, lace trim around the edges. “These, too?” 

 

“Your choice.”

 

Natasha wordlessly slides them gracefully down her legs, leaving her lower half bare in the coruscating moonlight, and Wanda finds herself positively overcome with sheer awe at the sight. 

 

“You look beautiful, Natasha,” she tells her again, and Wanda revels in the slight blush that spreads across Natasha’s high cheekbones in response. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispers out, before moving to follow Wanda’s instruction, placing herself face-down upon the rumpled bed, arms crossed beneath her head, legs slightly parted. 

 

A moment later, Wanda stands from the mattress—she can see the muscles of Natasha’s back twitch ever-so-slightly in response, and she grins. 

 

Approaching from the side, she runs a hand tenderly over the heated flesh at the back of Natasha’s thigh, just beneath the swell of her ass, unsurprised when her impromptu touch is met with no resistance. “Do you have a belt?”

 

Natasha nods, the movement slight and barely noticeable, cheek squished against her arms. “Dresser. Top drawer.”

 

With one last parting stroke across smooth, milky skin, Wanda steps deliberately over to the wooden dresser, easing open the top drawer and humming to herself with satisfaction as she lays eyes upon a sturdy black leather belt with a square-ish silver belt buckle, about two inches in width, sleek and hard to the touch. 

 

A second later, she's back, leather belt folded neatly in her grip, hand clutching the end with the buckle, idly tracing the sturdy material as she gazes curiously at the expanse of pale unmarked skin before her just _waiting_ to be marked. 

 

“Do you have a safe word?”

 

“Do I need one?”

 

Wanda resists the urge to sigh. “Yes, Natasha, you need one."

 

Natasha thinks for a moment, brow furrowed in delicate contemplation. 

 

“Прочность,” she decides eventually, voice low and thick with her native Russian accent—something Wanda’s never heard before.

 

“Прочность,” Wanda repeats the word, trying it out on her tongue; it’s similar to a Sokovian word she knows (all Russian and Sokovian words are at least somewhat related, and consequentially have nearly identical meanings)—but still, she’s not quite sure what it means. “Means… energy?”

 

Natasha hums. “Close. ‘Strength.’”

 

“Прочность. ‘Strength,'” Wanda repeats again. “I like that. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

 

Natasha doesn’t reply to that, and Wanda doesn’t think she will—instead, she turns her focus back to the ravishing swell of Natasha’s ass, the charming dimples at the base of her spine just visible beneath the snug hem of her tank top, the smooth lines of her elegant legs; every shadow of her angelic figure is something almost magical, something assuredly _sublime_ in the temperate glow of the silvery moonlight, and Wanda thinks that this is the closest she’ll ever get to true divinity. 

 

_Crack!_ Natasha doesn’t flinch as she lands the first strike high over both cheeks (the brief jiggle of the round flesh in the wake of the blow a positively _mesmerizing_ sight to witness)—Wanda wasn’t really expecting her to, anyhow. 

 

_Crack!_ Another, just below the first, a fair amount of power behind the swing. Natasha doesn’t move a muscle. 

 

_Crack! Crack!_ There’s two in rapid succession, the first laid at the crease of her thighs, the second squarely atop the first. Wanda thinks she sees Natasha flinch slightly on the second, but she can’t be sure. 

 

_Crack!_ At the tops of her thighs. 

 

_Crack!_ Again, at her sit spot. 

 

_Crack!_ Low on her cheeks. 

 

_Crack!_ Slightly higher. 

 

Wanda can feel her heart racing in her chest, part of it purely from the adrenaline rush she’s getting (something she’ll have to examine in detail later), partly from the exertion every hit takes from her.

 

_Crack!_ High up on her cheeks, right atop the very first strike. _Crack!_ Again, and Natasha’s muscles twitch.

 

Her ass cheeks are a rich pink now, various darker fuchsia-red lines pressed into her skin from the edges of the belt, the rosy blush creeping higher and higher up on her cheeks until it disappears beneath the fabric of her burgundy tank. 

 

_Crack!_ She thinks she hears Natasha inhale sharply at that—but again, that could absolutely just be her imagination; Natasha’s pain tolerance is… well. Wanda knows damn well she’s not called the Black Widow for nothing. 

 

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_ Three blows, all directly on her sit spot, the skin there rapidly turning a deep reddish hue—Natasha lets out a small whimper at that, quiet and subtle… But she doesn’t safe-word as Wanda hesitates briefly, then winds herself up for another heavy strike. 

 

_Crack!_ Across her upper thighs. 

 

_Crack!_ Upon her cheeks. 

 

_Crack!_ Slightly lower. 

 

_Crack!_ Same spot. 

 

_Crack!_ Same spot.

 

_Crack!_ Again.

 

_Crack!_ Another slight whimper from Natasha as she lands one in the same spot.

 

_Crack!_ Across her upper thighs—Wanda hears a sniffle, but again, no safe word. 

 

_Crack!_ _Crack!_ First, at the crease of her thighs; second, atop her once-pale cheeks, now a glowing sanguine red—Natasha lets out whimpers on both blows, the pain of it clearly starting to get to her. 

 

And still, no safe word.

 

_Crack!_ Upper thighs. _Crack!_ Low on her cheeks. _Crack!_ Again. _Crack!_ Again. 

 

Wanda pauses for a moment as Natasha squirms on the bedsheets, a keening whine escaping her throat. 

 

“Прочность?” she asks gently, unassumingly, trying to wordlessly communicate that she won’t be disappointed either way.

 

Natasha sniffles, wiping at her nose. “Нет.”

 

“Хорошо. You are doing very well, Natasha.”

 

No response. 

 

_Crack!_ Low on her cheeks. _Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!_ Same place—Natasha whimpers, flinching slightly against the blows on the last two, the purplish bruising upon her reddened cheeks now beginning to show beneath heated crimson skin. 

 

_Crack!_ Upper thighs. _Crack!_ Sit spot—a strangled noise escapes Natasha’s throat, something Wanda can’t quite decipher; and still, no safe word. _Crack!_ Lower cheeks; another whimper from Natasha; Wanda withholds a sigh, knowing if they go any further, Natasha will likely bleed. 

 

“We are done,” she announces, quiet but unyielding.

 

She doesn’t see it, but she knows that a look of slight confusion is present upon Natasha’s gorgeous features. “But I didn’t safe word.”

 

“We are done,” Wanda repeats, and Natasha gingerly moves to sit up. “Stop,” Wanda tells her. She does, falling back down atop the bed, perfectly still and compliant. “Do you have lotion?”

 

“Bathroom,” Natasha mumbles, a slight degree of bewilderment evident in her tone—Wanda knows that that’s Natasha’s subtle way of saying she trusts her, that she’s deemed it safe to show this kind of vulnerability to Wanda; it makes her feel something inexplicable, something summery and snug, something words can’t possibly capture in any language. “Beneath the sink.”

 

Fairly quickly, Wanda’s retrieved a slim green bottle of eucalyptus-scented lotion from the cabinets, squirting some onto her hands and kneeling on the bed, straddling one of Natasha’s reddened thighs. 

 

“Tell me if I am hurting you,” she requests quietly, before gently rubbing her lotion-slick hands across Natasha’s upper thighs, the skin hot and tender beneath her hands, the balmy-spearmint of the salve steadily permeating the room. 

 

Natasha inhales sharply when she reaches the swell of her ass, back muscles flexing in an effort not to flinch—as best as she can, Wanda soothes it away with soft touches and whispered reassurances, slow and deliberate in her movements, perpetually telling Natasha how well she’s doing, how perfect she’s being for Wanda, even if the redhead doesn’t respond to the hushed praise. 

 

By the end of it, Natasha’s leaning back ever-so-slightly into the contact, into Wanda’s slippery hands as they knead her sore and bruised behind, soft unprompted sighs of contentment escaping her on every stroke that most certainly don’t escape Wanda’s notice—but all too soon it’s over, her hands having soothed every inch of angry redness across battered cheeks and thighs… truthfully, she’s not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. 

 

Then, before she can stop herself, she’s bending down to place a warm kiss just between the refined dimples at her spine, quietly murmuring, “Thank you, Natasha,” against milky-white skin, feeling a slight tremble run throughout Natasha’s entire body in response.

 

A minute later finds her returning (lotion and belt now put safely back in the bathroom and dresser, respectively) to see a reserved but almost inquisitive-looking Natasha laid on her side atop the sheets, head propped up by her hand, bottom half still magnificently bare (her skin seems to almost _glow_ in the phosphorescent moonlight)—as Wanda moves closer, she can see the bloodshot redness in cat-like green eyes, the wetness of salty tears that have yet to dry on flushed cheeks, the deep cherry red of her swollen lower lip where she’d bitten it raw. 

 

She looks beautiful. 

 

“Will you stay?” she asks a second later, her voice hoarse and hesitant, eyes shimmering with a rare openness that rips through Wanda like a bullet to the heart. 

 

A second later, she’s crawling into the bed and pulling Natasha’s docile body to rest fully upon hers, naked pale legs straddling her waist, messy fire-red waves tucked safely beneath her chin, Natasha’s breath warm and sweet on her collarbone. 

 

“Of course,” she murmurs as something of an afterthought, shifting to place a lingering kiss atop Natasha’s forehead in the darkness and simpering happily to herself when she feels Natasha leaning deliberately into it. “You have done so well, Natasha. I am very proud.”

 

Natasha doesn’t hide the way her body shudders under the praise then, doesn’t hide the slight flush Wanda can feel burning her cheeks, doesn’t hide the bashful smile she presses into the curve of Wanda’s neck—and really, Wanda thinks as she’s drifting off to sleep, that’s all she’s ever wanted: Natasha, here with her, letting herself go for Wanda in a way she never has for anyone ever before. 

 

And after tonight, Wanda’s starting to think that maybe, just maybe, Natasha might want that, too. 

 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> прочность | _prochnost'_ | Strength
> 
> хорошо | _horosho_ | Okay; It's okay; Alright
> 
> нет | _nyet_ | No
> 
> (my russian isn't great, 'cause I only took like a year of it, so I only used the simple stuff I learned... so let me know if there's any mistakes, 'cause that's all on me)
> 
> also here’s the link to my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


End file.
